The Lost Seed
by Holy-cows-and-flying-pigs
Summary: After the failed attempts to keep Khan hidden in his cyrogenically-induced sleep, Starfleet risks an experimental rehabilitation procedure. The U.S.S. Enterprise, along with its new medical officer Dr. John Harrison, is delayed in its five-year mission when it is ordered to transport a violent criminal across the galaxy. Rated for language and some violence. Most likely Khan/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**It has been ages since I last sat down and wrote a Fanfic, so feel free to review. I am a huge fan of all things Star Trek (except Star Trek: Enterprise, that show went a little haywire) and respect it all so I'll try to keep to the established Star Trek 'verse, but please realize that I will take some liberties. If any fellow Trekkies feel I've overstepped, please call me out on it! Also note that this will probably be a Khan/OC. This might start off a little slow, but give it a chance! Enjoy!**

* * *

He met no one's eyes as he was quietly escorted from the shuttle bay by a small group of security personnel from the quadrant's Federation prison. The stranger stared ahead of him with reptilian eyes. Two red-clad ensigns pretended to be utterly fascinated by a panel on the corridor hall that stuck out _just so_, then swung around to memorize the prisoner's identification number for later gossip. 4-7-3-6-8. The numbers were branded into the slate gray, prison-issued jumpsuit the man wore like a second skin.

Captain James T. Kirk, accompanied by his first officer and chief of medical staff, met the small party in the Brig. He crossed his arms, displeased.

"Why has our _very _important five-year voyage into uncharted space been delayed, again?"

The leader of the security guards mimicked the captain's stance. "Well," he said, "I wouldn't say delay; think of it as the scenic route." Jim felt torn between the urges to hit the snarky guard or to strangle him. He smiled at the guard's forehead, just below the man's receding, blond hairline.

"The scenic route?" Kirk said, only a little dangerously.

"I believe he means that this assignment is not a delay of our orders, but rather an extension." Spock added, quite unnecessarily, Jim thought. He bit back a sigh.

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Spock. I understand what the man means, I'm just not happy about it."

Spock chose to be silent; the captain was in one of his moods again. The _U.S.S. Enterprise_ was scheduled to embark on her five-year mission… two weeks ago. Needless to say, the captain was on edge. Spock felt his left eyebrow twitch involuntarily, the Vulcan equivalent of an eye roll.

"Fine," Jim said finally, "fine. I give up; Spock, take care of all—" he gestured to the prisoner, "—this. Give him a cell with a view." He waited for someone to laugh at his joke. Spock's left eyebrow twitched as Dr. McCoy muttered something vaguely mutinous under his breath. The captain cleared his throat. "Well, I'll leave you to it, Spock. Bones, you're with me." He saluted the security team and sauntered away.

"Jesus Christ, somebody needs to put a bell on that man or something, how else am I supposed to keep track of him?" Dr. McCoy grumbled.

Spock tilted his head towards the prisoner's guard. "If you would escort the prisoner to Cell D…"

* * *

"I don't get it, Bones," Kirk said, "does Starfleet not want us to have the mission?"

"Jim, I'm sure—"

"Shi—Bones, you don't think this is about you-know-who's 'rehabilitation', do you?" Kirk nervously paced the doctor's office.

"Well, that could explain the delays, but—"

"Two months, Bones, _two months_ without incident."

"It's a five-year assignment."

The captain was silent for a moment. He rubbed his temples and sighted. "I know, I know."

The doctor continued his argument. "And, Jim, the procedure's experimental, we have no idea how Khan's mind—" the office door slid open with a mechanical sigh and a tall, dark-haired man in blue walked into the space.

"Captain, Doctor, I apologize for interrupting; I can come back later if you'd like," the man directed his deep, accented voice to the two senior officers.

"No, I wouldn't dream of it, John, come in."

"Really, Dr. Harrison," Kirk forced his lips into a smile, "Bones and I were just discussing his terrible golf swing."

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**So that's the first chapter, don't worry if it doesn't make sense, the second chapter will explain things. Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Here's the second chapter. I'll post chapters fairly regularly; I just think that the story make more sense with the first and second chapters posted at the same time. Please read and review!**

* * *

Two Months Before…

"Could you do it, Spock?"

"Theoretically speaking, it is possible to remove or bury an individual's memories so far that they are forgotten, but one would be left with an empty shell, and even if that was not the case, it is impossible to determine if the individual's nature would be buried as well—"

"—Spock—"

"To replace every lost memory with a fake would be incredible tedious and taxing on the mind—"

"—Spock—"

"And the result could be worse than the original—"

"Spock!"

"Yes, Captain?"

"I asked if you were capable of performing the procedure, are you?"

"Affirmative, Captain."

Kirk looked expectantly at Admiral Lauren Flynn, the new high command since Admiral Marcus' death. "It's your call, Admiral."

Admiral Flynn closed her dark brown eyes, set deep in an aging face that was stretched taunt from an austere, grey bun, and mouthed a few silent words before replying. "If that bastard shows even a hint of remembering who he is," her eyes flew open, " I will send him to a Klingon prison camp."

"Is that a yes, ah, ma'am?" Kirk added.

Admiral Flynn nodded. "That's a yes, Captain Kirk."

* * *

"Damnit, Jim," Dr. McCoy grabbed his friend's shoulders. "He may be a psychopath, but he's still a man, a human being, not some God-damn lab rat!"

"Bones, calm down and listen to me. A) He's a genetically engineered super soldier, I don't think your lab rat argument is valid. B) He's a danger, you say what happened; we're not safe even when he's cryogenically _frozen_. Any extremist with determination and a death wish will find him eventually, no matter where we hide him. And C) you said it yourself: he's a psychopath, but there is a way to change that; he could be our ally!"

The doctor shook his head. "I wouldn't wish this brainwashing on my arch enemy," Jim opened his mouth to speak, "not even on the man who was responsible for the death of my best friend." Jim slowly closed his mouth.

"I'm sorry, Doctor, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Kirk had a pained look on his face.

Dr. McCoy nodded and turned to go. "Just remember whose blood saved your life."

* * *

Khan sat strapped to a chair in a secure room used for quarantines in the sick bay. He glanced lazily at the restraints; undoubtedly reinforced with something Starfleet thought could stop him. He suspected that he could escape easily enough… when he had his full strength back. He had just been "thawed", so to speak, and still felt sore from his cryogenic sleep.

The airtight doors glided open, making the faintest of noises.

"Captain, what a lovely surprise," Khan droned. "I see you've managed to fix your ship. How nice of you to make the _Enterprise_ pretty for me so I can experience the full pleasure of watching her _burn._"

Kirk entered with three security personnel, Mr. Spock, and a reluctant Dr. McCoy. "None of that would matter to John Harrison." He smiled, steel in his eyes.

"John Harrison doesn't exist," Khan said coldly.

"No," Kirk stopped smiling, "but he will. Spock, if you are ready?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Begin."

Spock approached the restrained Khan. "You are not Khan Noonien Singh," he placed his hand expertly on Khan's face. "You are John Harrison," and entered his mind.

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**Well, what do you think? Please review and give your opinions!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the feedback, guys! Before I go into the third chapter I just want to remind everyone that Kahn is John and John is Kahn, and don't worry, John will act more Kahn-y (Kahn-like?) soon enough. Now that that's out of the way, let us begin!**

* * *

Present Time:

A few crew men and women sat playing cards around a table in the recreation room. Though gambling in all forms was strictly prohibited by Starfleet regulations, very few starships actually enforced the rule. The game the small group played was an old one, and though the name had changed over the years, the crewmen played by the same rules established hundreds of years before them.

"I'll raise you fifty," Ensign Finley said, tossing his chips into the modest pile in the center of the table.

"You're bluffing," Major Remis said dubiously. He was new to the game and had taken to challenging every move made by his opponents. Finley stared blankly at the major. It was Remis who finally relented.

"Fold," he said.

"I'll match," Nurse Cherie's Louisiana accent sang sweetly. She had the most chips in front of her by far. "And raise you two hundred."

The fourth player looked at her cards and silently placed them on the table, signally her fold.

The game had gathered a small, shifting crowd. Bystanders observed for short periods of time, then moved on to other sources of entertainment.

A man walked quietly into the recreation room. Some of the crew tensed, others made a point to not look at him. John Harrison walked in a peculiar way; for the most part it was the purposeful gait of a doctor, but sometimes it changed and took on a predatory nature. He sat in a soft lounge chair in the far left corner if the room.

It had been two months since the explosion in the sick bay, or so they told him. John could only remember flashes from the day of the accident. The ship therapist had explained that this was normal and that his memories could be lost forever.

Still, what he did remember was confusing: Mr. Spock's face leaning over his, fire and debris everywhere, a deep sense of fear and rage. John shook away the feelings and searched for a distraction from his thoughts. His grey eyes caught sight of the card game.

The game had apparently started with seven, based on the number of empty chairs around the table. It had been narrowed down to the remaining seated four. He vaguely recognized the men but was familiar with the two women. One was a nurse John had worked with in the sick bay, and the other—

"Pair of aces," laughed lieutenant Uhura, "I win!" she followed this with a string of degrading names in alien languages. The other players either glared at the communication's officer or swore back at her.

The lieutenant gathered her winnings and replaced the chips in their container. "I expect your payments in full by the end of the mission," she said with a professional air.

"Congratulations," John said as Uhura passed by. She turned to him with a guarded smile.

"Thank you, Dr. Harrison," she said, "maybe next time you'll join us." Her words were civil, but her tone told him to back, off. John stood and glanced at the clock on the wall.

"Unfortunately, I'm not one for poker," Uhura blinked at his unexpected use of the nearly-ancient word for the card game, "and I'm expected in sick bay."

"Too bad," she said without genuine remorse.

John couldn't understand her belligerent tone. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable in the crowded recreation room, and very alone.

"Goodnight, Lieutenant," he excused himself and walked leisurely for the door. In the solitude of the hall, John breathed a sigh of relief and ran a trembling hand through his black, combed-back hair. He couldn't tell if the trembling was from sleeplessness or the sudden flash of anger that flooded his senses after his confrontation with Uhura.

John entered the lift at the end of the all; he was already late for his shift. He rubbed his tired eyes and reminded himself to get more of the sleeping medication the therapist had prescribed after hearing about John's nightmares.

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**There's more to come! I think I might make a habit of posting two chapters at a time, but we'll see. Please review!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Fourth Chapter, not much to say in the author's not this time. Thanks to anyone who has read this story; I love reading what people think of it. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

The dream was the same every time.

He stood in front of a large crowd of several hundred people. Behind him knelt nearly a dozen gagged and bound men and women. Their clothes were worn and tattered, but some still wore the remnants of white lab coats. From the exterior, John Harrison could see no extreme differences between the crowd and the hostages, but there was a distinct feeling of _us _and _them_. The kneeling people were _not us_, thought John.

He stole a glance to his reflected self in the glass window to his right. His face was the same, but changed with bitterness and cold authority. His black hair hung in his face, partially obscuring one prominent cheekbone. His hand brushed the fallen hair back into place with an annoyed gesture. The name "John Harrison" felt wrong. He turned back to the gathered people, his bitterness mirrored in their own faces.

"Brothers," he spoke quietly, with confidence, "sisters, look upon the faces of our _creators_." John snarled the word. "Look upon those that would enslave us and use us to make up for their own inferiority." John saw the crowd cling to every word he said. "Even now, the world's nations make more of us, more of our brothers and sisters, with the single purpose of controlling and destroying our individual minds."

His followers, no, John thought, his _army_, called for blood. He grabbed the nearest kneeling man and brought him before the crowd.

"Here is one of them," the scientist struggled against John's grip, "one of our creators. Tell me," he asked the man, "Dr. Harrison, are you proud of your children?" He began to press his hands against the scientist's temples. The man with John's name cried out, tears of pain running down his face. The door to the large room burst open and an athletic, tan woman ran in.

"They're here," she called, "they've found us!" The glass on the left side of the hall shattered as bullets from weapons primitive to phasers flew into the hall. The air erupted in screams from the wounded. The woman was one of the first to fall.

John dropped the scientist and stared in disbelief. "Meila," he tried to shout, but her name came out in a whisper. He dove for cover behind the bodies of his dead brothers; they wouldn't have minded, thought John. Then he stood and, with a composed expression, commanded all those who could run to do so.

John felt a hand rest on his arm. His eyes opened in a flash, and before his attacker could react, he had the red-clad assailant pinned by the neck against the wall, two feet above the floor. A red-clad woman. John blinked and creased his brow, briefly tightening his grip around her neck before dropping his hand away. The young officer fell to her knees; she clutched her throat and gasped. For a moment, her brown hair and olive skin reminded him of another.

"Meila?" he whispered. The woman coughed and shook her head. John gathered his senses. He was in his office on the _Enterprise_, he had fallen asleep; everything had been a dream.

And he had just assaulted a fellow crew member.

John knelt beside her. "I am so sorry," he offered his apology. "You startled me, I didn't mean to—I am so sorry." He repeated, horrified at what he had done. The woman took a few deep breaths, her face slowly returning to its normal coloring.

"Wow," she wheezed, "I didn't know you doctors were so intense about your beauty sleep." It took John a moment to realize she had made a joke.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

The woman leaned against the wall. "I think I'll live."

"I'm so—"

"Sorry, yes, you should be," she nodded, "but that is the third time you've said that." She had a distinctly alto voice and even when strained, it was soothing.

"Right, sorry."

"Mmhmm," she gave him a look. "Help me up?"

John rushed to do so. The woman smoothed out her uniform and tucked her collarbone-length hair behind her ears.

"Dr. Volsky sent me for the mutated Hemophilus influenzae sample," she edged past John and picked up a tablet from his desk, "and the original H1N1 virus."

John signed the release on the screen. "Pick it up in the labs, a nurse will handle it from there. Is that all, Miss…?" he left the question hanging.

"Lieutenant Shaye," she said briskly and walked out of his office, the door hissing closed behind her.

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**How's that for chapter four?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Awesome response from the Fanfiction community, in my opinion. Thanks to anyone who's taking an interest in this story! Now would be a good time to say that Khan has been one of my favorite non-reappearing characters in TOS, and definitely in my top three favorite villains. I think his vaguely mentioned backs story was incredible interesting and I want to expand on that. Anyway, here's chapter five; the next chapter will be longer, I promise. Please review!**

* * *

Dr. McCoy stood in the center of the Brig, flirting with the pretty engineer Scotty had banished to Brig Security.

"So what did you do to Scotty to end up here? I didn't know he had the authority to do it," he teased in his own way. Lieutenant Shaye laughed and looked up from the panel she sat in front of.

"He doesn't, he had to bribe the head of security," she shook her head with frustration. "And I didn't _do _anything," she paused for dramatic effect, a small smirk playing on her lips, "I just implied that a certain chief engineer's modifications to the _Enterprise_ were sloppy and ineffective."

"That's it?" McCoy sounded surprised.

"I may have also called him a name."

"And what name was that?"

"A word that a 'nice, young lass should not use, let alone know'," Shaye mimicked Mr. Scott's accent. She drew a laugh from the older man.

"That's so accurate it's frightening."

The captain's voice over the ship communicator interrupted the doctor. "Bones, finish up there and head to the Bridge." Dr. McCoy muttered obscenities under his breath that would have made a nice, young lass blush crimson.

"Could you point me in the direction of Cell D?"he asked. The lieutenant pointed to the only occupied cell in the Brig. "_Molto bene, signorina_," Bones winked. Lieutenant Shaye felt compelled to roll her eyes.

The doctor stopped in front of the glass-like barrier and adjusted the small, circular opening to allow for the prisoner's arm to go through.

"Role up your sleeve and put your arm through the hole; I'm going to take a sample of your blood," he said in a bored tone. "Don't even think about trying anything. See that attractive woman sitting right there?" he gestured to the lieutenant and then tapped the opening with his needle. "She controls the size of this window. If you even look me funny, she will break your arm before you can say 'gotcha', got it?" The prisoner turned around and stared at the doctor. He was tall, at least seven feet, bulky with muscle and more reptile than man. He was devoid of all hair, including eyebrows and lashes, and was covered in leathery grey skin broken by patches of scales in various locations. The prisoner's eyes were wide and unblinking, the pupils black slits against yellow irises. The reptilian man slowly extended his arm through the opening.

Bones quickly found a vein and extracted a small amount of the alien's inky blood. The prisoner brought his arm back into the cell and turned to his previous position. Dr. McCoy whistled an off-tune song and walked toward the door.

"_Arrivederci_, Miss Shaye!"

"I'm still not Italian, Dr. McCoy!" she called after him, correcting a mistake he continued to make.

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**Tell me whatcha think, darlings!**


	6. Chapter 6

**I would just like to thank HeavenlyCondemned for pointing out how bad of a typer/speller I am. This may seem a little extreme to some, but when I'm wrong, I admit it whole-heartedly. So, dear friends, I want to apologize for the fool I have made of myself when I continually merged the names of "Khan" and "John". It is inexcusable and it won't happen again (but if it does, please think kindly of me). Now that that moment of public embarrassment is out of the way, here is chapter six; it is long, as I had promised. Oh, also, you may recognize the name "Elba II" from an episode of TOS that does involve a mental institution on Elba II; I altered the planet conditions a bit, but what-the-hey, it fits the plot. Anyway, the episode is "Whom Gods Destroy", if anyone is interested.**

* * *

Captain Kirk tapped his left hand against the armrest of his chair; his chin resting on his other fist.

"Mr. Spock," he said impatiently, "how much longer?" The Vulcan paused for a millisecond while he did the calculations.

"Twenty-two minutes and thirty-seven seconds before arrival at the Elba II asylum for the criminally insane."

"Uhura, tell security to prepare a team of five to escort the prisoner to the planet surface."

"Yes, Captain." Uhura answered. Kirk jumped from the captain's chair and joined Spock and Dr. McCoy on the right side of the Bridge.

"What kind of hospital takes up an entire planet, anyway?" the doctor asked.

"The only inhabitants of the planet are the patients, the doctors, and the security guards."

"Is it class M?" Jim questioned.

"No," Spock replied, "the planet's atmosphere is completely incapable of sustaining any form of carbon-based life. I understand that it is a security measure against escape." Jim nodded his similar understanding.

"I'd say that's pretty clever, wouldn't you, Spock?" Kirk added, hoping to get in a quick jab at his first officer. "Who thought that up?"

Spock checked over his console before answering. "I believe it was the late Admiral Marcus, sir." The captain crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them again. He cleared his throat.

"You know, Dr. Marcus was reassigned to the _Bradbury_ after Starfleet found out how she had forged her transfer to the _Enterprise_," Kirk tactlessly changed the conversation to a subject that was only a little less awkward. McCoy rolled his eyes.

"I was aware, sir," Spock itched to be back to his panel; a small, blinking light signified a slight disturbance in the sensors.

"Oh," Kirk faltered, "okay, I'll just… go back to the chair then." Instead, he began to pace the Bridge.

* * *

Lieutenant Shaye felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She glanced behind her at Cell D, expecting to see the prisoner's back. In its place, she met his unblinking eyes. The creature's face was shaped in a distinctly _not human_ way. Beneath his eyes, a small snout protruded at a shallow slope; two slits halfway down his face served as a nose. His mouth seemed just a little too wide for his face and his lips a little too thin. Shaye recalled that eyes positioned to the front of the head were a characteristic of a predator. She bit her lip and suppressed a shudder.

"You're an ugly fellow, aren't you?" she forced herself to turn her back on the occupied cell. The silence of the Brig settled around her. It was soon broken by a rasping voice.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, is it not, Earth-being?"

* * *

"Ten minutes and twenty-one seconds before arrival," Spock informed the captain. Kirk settled back into his chair.

"Have you heard back from security, Lieutenant?"

Uhura glanced at the captain. "A team is ready and standing by."

"Tell them to ready the prisoner for transport."

"Yes, Captain."

* * *

Shaye swiveled in her chair. "What did you say?" The prisoner stared at her.

"My people will come for me." His lips hadn't moved; his voice spoke in her head. Shaye wanted to call for a security team, but found that she couldn't look away from the prisoner's eyes.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You are going to open this cell," was his way of answering.

"Now, why would I do that?" her anger temporarily shielded her from his influence. The prisoner revealed his sharp, needle-like teeth.

"Because you want to do this for me, Lieutenant Shaye," he hissed, no sound coming from his lips. Shaye realized that her hand was inching towards the button that would release him.

"I don't," she tried to pull her hand back to her side.

"Don't worry," he rasped, "I won't try to escape. My people are coming for me." Shaye's traitorous hand pressed the switch and the barrier immediately disappeared. She felt paralyzed as the reptilian man walked toward her. Soon, his frame towered over her. "That wasn't so hard," he said. She flinched when he reached down and took her phaser from its place on her belt.

Without warning, he struck the lieutenant across the temple. She fell into the edge of the console, hitting her head with enough force to break skin, and sprawled unconscious to the floor.

_Weak_, thought the prisoner in his own language. He pressed a few switches on the panel and returned to his cell, the barrier returning in place. He tucked the phaser discreetly into his clothing just as the security team entered the Brig.

* * *

"Security team in the Brig," Uhura informed Kirk. "It seems there was an accident of some kind; they're sending an engineer to sick Bay."

"Is the prisoner still secure?" Jim asked.

"Yes."

"Fifty-three seconds until arrival," Spock said.

"Have security ready the prisoner for transport; Sulu, stand by to drop out of warp on Mr. Spock's command," Kirk opened a channel to the engine room.

"Scotty?"

"Aye, Captain?"

"The transporter has been acting up the last couple of days; I want you up there just in case something goes wrong."

"Alright, I'll be there in but a moment."

The captain closed the channel.

"Thirty-four seconds until arrival."

"What do you think, Bones?" Kirk smiled.

"Well, since you asked: the food is terrible, I can't get a good night's sleep, we could die at any moment, and I think the ship's computer is hitting on me."

Jim laughed softly. "I guess I asked for that one."

"Prisoner is in the transporter room, sir," Uhura relayed the information. "Mr. Scott has arrived as well."

"Twenty-two seconds."

"But I was talking about the 'scenic route'."

Bones answered with a superior sniff. "I've seen better."

Kirk was silent for a second. "You know the computer isn't actually hitting on you, right?"

"Oh, it is, Jim, it is."

"Fifteen seconds," Spock said.

"Just because the voice is female doesn't mean it has the cyber-hots for you."

"Not so loud, Captain," Bones replied with a glance around the room. "It's got ears that would make a librarian burst with envy."

"I thought I told you, you can take your metaphors and—"

"Mr. Sulu," Spock interrupted the captain, "Disengage warp in: ten, nine, eight, five, four, three, two—" the ship dropped out of warp, narrowly missing a giant asteroid. "One." Spock emphasized the last word as Sulu gave the commander a sheepish look. Kirk rubbed his palms together.

"So where's this planet?"

"Captain, we seem to be in some sort of asteroid belt," Chekov said in a confused tone, his accent playing tricks on the English language.

"Mr. Spock, explain," Kirk commanded, a bad feeling developing in the pit of his stomach.

"No explanation, Captain," Spock said, "We are at the coordinates of Elba II." He scanned an asteroid with the ship sensors. "Interesting."

"What is it?"

"Sensors read that the asteroids' composition is nearly identical to that of Elba II."

"Are you saying that something blasted an entire planet into chunks of space rock?" Spock raised an eyebrow at Dr. McCoy's phrasing.

"That is the logical conclusion."

"Shields up," Kirk said, "Whole ship on yellow alert."

"Oh, great," Bones groaned. "Another giant spaceship with technology that is far superior to ours." Kirk gave him a brief smile.

"Is anything showing up on the long range sensors?"

"Nothing, sir," Chekov said.

"Uhura, send a full report to Starfleet command and inform them that the _Enterprise_ is investigating the situation," he made an effort to look collected and confident, though secretly he was overjoyed at the unexpected adrenaline rush. "Spock, I want to know what happened here, is there anything in the debris—"

"Captain!" Uhura cried and stood suddenly, clutching her ear piece. "There's something transmitting a message out there!" Kirk leaned forward in his chair, his jaw set and his eyes shining with excitement.

"On screen."

* * *

**Alright, I'll admit that parts of this could be considered a bit campy, but hey, it's Star Trek! And I have a great love for the campy-ness from the original series, so I just had to add some in here. Also, it would not be a Star Trek story without a mysterious spaceship with powers greater than thou. So there. Please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks to anyone who favorited or is following or reviewed the story! Your support keeps me writing even when I'm distracted by other things; I think I'm part magpie or something, I get distracted so easily. Anyway, there may be a small (and I mean miniscule) waiting period for chapters eight and nine, but we'll see. Here's chapter seven, my darlings!**

* * *

As Spock announced the twenty-two minute countdown, John's dreams changed for the first time in two months.

"We need a cause," John said sharply. He stood in a large room; its furnishings expensive but simple.

"Your army would follow you through the gates of Hell," Meila smiled and gently touched his bicep, "You don't need a cause."

"My army isn't _enough_," his snarl erased her content expression. "I need to stop Tyr's little coup d'état before it can gather momentum.

"Really," Meila laughed dubiously, "and how do you plan to do that?" John gestured for the woman to sit in a chair that faced a large map of the earth's ever-changing political boundaries. She complied.

"What is the one thing that evokes hatred in the heart of every Augment?" He asked enthusiastically.

"Humans."

"Wrong," he knelt in front of Meila and tightly grasped her hands, a zealous spark in his grey eyes. "We are human, my dear, just better."

"Than what do we hate?" she leaned toward him, teasingly close.

"Human scientists."

Meila nodded. "That is a cause to fight for, but how would you spread the word? Tyr refuses to let you across his border and I doubt that we will be able to sneak you in." She brought one of his hands to her lips.

"Yes," John nodded gravely, "That does present a problem; it's a good thing I have friends in low places." He smiled slightly.

"Spies in the ranks of your allies?" Meila mock-chided, "Khan you're simply devious."

"The allies of today are the enemies of tomorrow."

"I suppose it could work," she pushed at John's hands and stood up, "but it's still unnecessary."

"Enlighten me," John rose and followed her.

"You can defend yourself easily enough; your forces could defeat Tyr if he tried anything."

"And if he brings our Augment neighbors into the fight?"

Meila walked toward the large window that allowed the room's only light source, the moon, through its glace. "You own a quarter of the world. Everyone either fears you or admires you. No one in his right mind would try to overthrow you because of some minor dictator's jealousy."

"But?" John asked, sensing she had more to say.

"But this plan of your might give Tyr a cause," Meila looked intently at him. "Some of the others may think that you're getting greedy, that maybe all of Asia isn't enough for the Great Khan Singh anymore."

"Maybe it isn't."

"The human nations have been waiting for something like this," she hissed angrily. "For the Augments to fight among themselves. They are waiting for our weakest moment, then they will strike."

"We are never weak."

"If you think that, you are a fool."

"Wolves can never be weak when compared to sheep."

Meila laughed. "So you _are_ a fool."

John backhanded her across the face. The woman didn't flinch and felt very little pain. She looked at him defiantly as the same arm that had struck her snaked around her waist.

"What about you, Meila?" he tugged her close. "Do you fear me or admire me?"

"Are you sure you want me to answer that?" she said through barred teeth.

"It would be wise for you to do so," John purred dangerously.

"I've never feared you and I never will, Khan," she said softly, "but sometimes I feel I admire you less and less." She brushed a stray lock from his forehead.

"Go on, Meila, speak your mind."

Meila sighed. "It's a pity I love you too much to hate you." She cupped his cheek and closed the gap between them, kissing him lightly at first.

John woke from the dream with, to his surprise, wet eyes. His dreams were beginning to feel like memories. A pre-set alarm went off, reminding him of his shift in sick bay. He quickly shook away the dream's effect on him and got dressed.

The doors to the turbo lift opened two decks from the sick bay, startling John from his thoughts. A young security ensign helped a familiar engineer through the lift's doors with a begrudged look on his face. His expression immediately brightened at the sight of John.

"Doctor!" he exclaimed, "Are you headed for sick bay? Good," he didn't wait for an answer, "here's a patient." The ensign handed the woman off to John and nearly sprinted back down the hallway.

"Lieutenant Shaye?" he asked.

"Dr. Harrison," Shaye held her head. "What's new?" John inspected the gash above her left eye and let out a low whistle.

"Here," he wiped the blood that had run over her eye with the sleeve of his uniform, "This is all I can do until we reach the sick bay."

"I'm fine, really," she winced. John looked her directly in the eye.

"Look at me," he said. Shaye blinked and squinted at him; her eyes flickering from side to side. He gently placed both hands on her head and carefully examined her injuries. "Probable concussion, open head wound, and bruising to the temple, signifying possible damage to the cranium and/or brain. You are anything but fine." Shaye gingerly touched her bruised right temple.

"Brain damage?"

"Possibly," he confirmed, not mentioning that he was fairly certain the bruises were superficial. She creased her brow.

"Jesus, what happened to me?"

"You can't remember?"

She shook her head. "Nothing."

"Well, in that case, your name is Napoleon and you want to take over the world," John said with a straight face. Shaye attempted to roll her eyes.

"I meant about how this happened."

John almost smiled. "Can't blame me for trying."

"Considering you tried to kill me less than twenty-four hours ago, I think I can," she mumbled. John frowned.

The lift doors opened and John escorted her into sick bay. He spoke briefly with the medical officer he was relieving before leading her to an examination table.

"You're in luck, Lieutenant," he began scanning her vitals, "I've just started my shift."

"Isn't a nurse supposed to do this?" Shaye asked, making John recall Uhura's unexplained coldness toward him.

"Does it look like a nurse is available? This is the graveyard shift," he explained, "minimal staff, but all doctors on call, just in case." John retrieved an antibacterial cloth and cleaned her injury. The gash was done bleeding already and only oozed a small amount of blood once he finished. "It's not as bad as it looks," he assured her, "but you do have a minor concussion." John glanced worriedly at her bruises, which were looking less superficial than they had in the turbo lift.

"And the possible brain damage?"

John re-read the scanner's findings, then placed the device near her temple to double check its results.

"Everything checks out." He said. Shaye breathed a sigh of relief. "But I want to keep you over night to keep an eye on that concussion. I won't lie; your memory loss is worrying."

"Oh, Dr. Harrison," Shaye fluttered her eyelashes, "I bet you say that to all the girls."

"Only the pretty ones," he played along, a smile reaching his lips. He showed her to a bed in the recovery ward of the sick bay. The room reminded him of his own stay after the accident. An image of Commander Spock leaning over him flashed into his thoughts, accompanied by fury. He breathed deeply before saying goodbye to his new patient. As soon as he exited the ward, he placed a hand against the wall to brace himself from a surge of memories.

He remembered watching a number of torpedoes detonate on a ship and the loss that tore through his chest, followed by complete numbness and desire for revenge. He saw his own hands break bones and kill too many times to count. He watched as Captain Kirk swung at his face and body, trying to hurt him. He saw Meila place one hand on her abdomen and the other on his arm; and knew _exactly_ what the gesture meant and what he had lost the day she was killed.

John opened his eyes and found that, as of now, he knew three things for certain: he was not John Harrison; something about Lieutenant Shaye made him remember things from his past; and, most importantly, that he had been lied to.

And he was very, _very_ angry about it.

* * *

**The bottom author's note is where I usually just say stuff that I expect people won't read; I know I wouldn't. So I'm just going to put out there that I don't know why my mind insists that arranging two love interests (the mysterious Meila from his past and the charming Lieutenant Shaye) for Khan was a good idea. I suspect that y'all might start rooting for one instead of the other, even though one is dead (actually, that's just me, I have no clue as to what everyone else will think). But my mind keeps saying that it's a great idea, so I'm just gonna roll with it. If anyone gets confused, please say so! Oh, and don't forget to review! **


	8. Chapter 8

**Alright, the wait was longer than I had anticipated, but absence makes the heart grow fonder and all. Anyway, I won't waste your time with anything else. Here's the next chapter!**

* * *

"On screen," the captain commanded. Uhura flipped a few switches and the viewing screen flickered. A short, recorded visual message played.

A being with similar physical characteristics to the prisoner took up the majority of the screen. His, or possibly her, head and upper half of his face was covered by a helmet made from a blue-tinged metal. Dr. McCoy compared the alien's features to the prisoner's: the recorded image's eyes had and orange sheen to them in contrast to the prisoner's golden yellow, his snout was perhaps a bit more pronounced and his skin was covered by more scales. It was clear the two were of the same species.

The reptilian stranger made no attempt to speak, but hissed at various points during the recording and his facial expressions changed behind the metal mask as though he was speaking. The recording ended, leaving the crew with more questions than before.

"Was the translator activated during the message, Lieutenant?" Spock asked, his muscles tensing in concealed confusion.

"Of course," Uhura said sharply, and then added, "Commander," in hopes of keeping professional appearances for the captain. "The computers had nothing to translate; he wasn't saying anything."

"Well," Kirk sighed. "That was a complete waste of time. Has someone at least located the source of the message?"

"Sending coordinates now, sir," a low-ranked officer said. The transmitter's coordinates lit up on Chekov's screen.

"It's very close, sir," Chekov said.

"Can I get _that _on screen?"

"Right away, sir."

The screen zoomed in on a small black orb half-hidden by the planet's debris.

"Captain," Uhura was ignored by the distracted man. "Jim," the urgency in her voice caught his attention.

"Yes?"

"It's transmitting another message, not a recording and—" her eyes widened. "It says that the message is for the benefit of primitive technology that cannot retain telepathically shared information."

"Primitive?" asked Kirk, almost sounding insulted.

"Listen," she said, formalities forgotten, "we are instructed to go to a set of coordinates and hand over the Loduri in our possession."

"Loduri?"

Uhura shrugged. "The message ends with the coordinates and—"

The black orb exploded, essentially vaporizing what was left of the planet and violently knocking the _Enterprise_ from her position. The crew on the Bridge was jolted from their seats; those who were standing were directly thrown to the floor.

Kirk looked around, checking for signs of injury. "Uhura, what the Hell just happened?"

"The message ended with the words 'and if you do not'," she replied weakly, getting up from her place on the floor.

"A threat?" Kirk asked.

"I believe 'a warning' would be a more appropriate word, Captain," Spock said.

"Threat, warning," McCoy grumbled, still sitting on the floor, "either way we've got a better chance going against a fleet of Kingon warships."

"We've been in worse situations, Bones," Kirk helped the doctor to his feet.

"Shields at sixty-seven percent, Captain," Chekov interrupted as politely as possible.

"What?" Kirk exclaimed. "What were they at before?"

"Ninety-nine percent, sir."

Bones headed for the turbo lift. "Well, that settles it, I'll just go put the finishing touches on my final will and testament."

"You stay on this Bridge, that's an order."

"All decks are reporting injuries of some kind, Captain," Uhura informed him.

"You will go to sick bay, that's an order."

McCoy was already in the lift. He saluted as the doors sighed closed. Jim noticed Sulu rubbing his arm.

"You alright, Sulu?"

The helmsman shrugged. "Nothing serious, just a few bruises."

"Then set course for the new coordinates; warp seven if she's able," Kirk alluded to the _Enterprise_.

"Yes, sir," Sulu took his seat next to Chekov.

"Take us out, Sulu." Kirk said.

* * *

The sick bay was in chaos. Injured crewmen crowded the examination ward and only three-fourths of the entire medical staff was fit for duty. John didn't have time to mull over his new revelations. He worked on autopilot, going from patient to patient, utilizing the medical knowledge he was more than proficient with but hand no memory of learning. Deep down, the last thing he wanted to do was help the crew of the _Enterprise_, but he couldn't let on that anything had changed. There was still too much unknown.

After he had finished smoothing a bone-healing gel and wrapping gauze around a science officer's fractured ankle, John escaped to the safety of his office. He shuffled through the small number of information chips he had stocked before finally deciding on one. He walked over to the food synthesizer and inserted the chip into its only port. The synthesizer slip open and John retrieved a cup of coffee.

John said down behind his desk with a sigh. He had trouble thinking of himself as "John Harrison", but didn't know what else to call himself. He searched his fragmented memory for the name Meila had called him, but it seemed just out of reach. So John it was, at least for the time being. A nurse entered.

"Dr. McCoy needs help in surgery room three," she said. John downed the remaining drops of coffee and ignored the feeling of repulsion that threatened to overtake him.

"Of course," he smiled, crumpling up the light weight plastic cup and disposing it in the waste chute. "Room three, you said?"

John entered the surgery room moments later. There was three medical staff, including himself, in it. Dr. McCoy periodically glanced at the patient's vitals screen with a worried expression. John was aware that the metal canopy above the patient's chest was closely monitoring his condition and the doctor's work. He didn't understand why the chief surgeon would need two assistants for a surgery.

"Ah, John," McCoy said tightly, "would you mind relieving Diane from duty?" John looked at Nurse Hoffman and internally winced in sympathy. She was a senior nurse, accustomed to many sleepless nights and distressing sights, but even she had a breaking point. Her hair was coming loose from its pins and her elbow-length surgical gloves were covered in blood. Her face was set determinedly and she opened her mouth to protest, but her eyes have her away. John met them with his own and nodded. The electronic chart mounted on the wall blinked and beeped behind her. He quickly changed into surgical garb, disinfected his arms up to mid-bicep and put on gloves identical to Nurse Hoffman's while Dr. McCoy filled him in on the patent's state.

"Double shift?" John questioned after the nurse left surgery room three.

"We're operating on her nephew," McCoy replied, "and things are—" he glanced at the fluctuating lines on the screen above, then back to the task at hand, "well, things aren't going well," John mimicked the senior doctor's glance.

"No, they aren't," he agreed. Diane's nephew had been walking down a flight of stairs in the engine room when the explosion jarred the ship. He fell and hit the floor in a way similar to being pushed out of a two-story building and landing on concrete. His injuries had seemed minor for his fall at first, a broken arm and a few fractured ribs, but it was soon discovered that the few broken ribs had punctured several major organs.

John rechecked the blood transfusion system, then resumed his previous work. He kept the opening in the patient's chest clean and free of liquids while Dr. McCoy make quick, precise repairs with various surgical tools. The job was messy, and by no means a perfect or long term fix, but it was necessary. Though the severely injured from the blast numbered only a few, the captain had ordered that all injured crew were to be seen and taken care of before the _Enterprise_ reached its new destination; Kirk was expecting a fight and didn't want a full sick bay.

The lines on the graph suddenly dipped then increased; a persistent warning chime alerted the doctors to the danger. Dr. McCoy swore and pressed a switch on the metal canopy. John grabbed an oxygen mask from its holder and placed in over the crewman's nose and mouth, then looked desperately at the screen.

"What can we do?" John asked, all thoughts of hatred gone from his mind.

"He's going into cardiac arrest."

John remembered protocol and immediately handed him an injection. McCoy plunged into the nape of the man's neck, the injection releasing what should have been life-saving medication. The medication came too late; the crewman's hear gave out quicker than expected. The chiming stopped and the lines flattened out. For a moment, both Dr. McCoy and John just stared at the screen. John slowly moved his fingers underneath the man's chin, searching for a nonexistent pulse.

McCoy was the first to react. He took a deep breath and shook his head in a self-blaming way. He walked over to the ship communicator on the wall.

"Someone inform the captain of one casualty," the doctor bit out the last word, "and tell Nurse Diane Hoffman to report to my office." He looked back to John. "Are you alright?" he asked, genuine curiosity behind his sadness.

"I will be."

McCoy sighed. "I hate to do this to you after—" he looked respectfully at the crewman's still body, "but you need to clean up and tend to the others in sick bay." He smiled ironically at his own inside joke, though the smile was small and sad. John nodded, he found it easy to remain composed and stoic, but he fought to understand his conflicting inner emotions.

Back in his shop uniform and out of surgery room three, John sifted through his memories, trying to find something to distract him. Everything either confused or frustrated him further. All of his memories, his real memories, told him almost nothing about who he was. He didn't know who he was and a man was dead. The two were completely unrelated to each other, but both pushed him closer to his own breaking point.

His aimless walking had brought him to the door to the recovery ward. _Then again,_ John thought, _perhaps I'm not so close to breaking, yet._ He went into the now full ward and began checking over the patients in each bed he came to, releasing others for duty, and making others stay put, until he came to Lieutenant Shaye's bedside.

"How are you feeling?" he asked as he examined her day-old bruises and changed the patch of gauze over the healing gash. "Any headaches or nausea? Any return of memories?"

"No and no," Shaye answered, a bit unhappily. "You said it was only a minor concussion, how come I can't remember what happened to me, Dr. Harrison?""

"Maybe you don't want to."

"That's ridiculous."

John shrugged. "It's just a thought." He paused for a moment. "You can call me John, if you'd like."

Shaye fought the urge to raise an eyebrow. "Is this standard practice for you and your patients?"

"As you said, I nearly killed you the other day. I'm just trying to make you feel more comfortable."

Shaye looked thoughtfully at him. "Formalities _are_ so inconvenient." John smiled.

"My thoughts exactly, Lieutenant."

"In that case, let's start over," she stuck out her hand. "Hester Shaye, friends usually drop the 'Hester' bit, and you are?" John grasped her hand in his and squeezed gently.

"John Harrison," the words felt like sandpaper over his tongue.

"Nice to meet you, John," Hester Shaye's eyes gleamed with amusement. "You wouldn't happen to be a doctor, would you? 'Cause my head actually hurts like a bit—"

John shined a bright light into her eyes and watched for their reaction.

"What the Hell was that for?" Shaye exclaimed.

"Your ocular reactive responses aren't as quick as I'd like, but you're well enough to be released,"

"What?"

"You need at least three days in bed and, as your doctor, I won't release you for active duty until you do." As he said this, he lead Shaye to the sick bay door. "It was nice meeting you too, Hester, now get to your quarters." He left the stunned woman as the sick bay doors closed. Just as he was about to re-enter the recovery ward, a hand rested on his shoulder.

"Please," Diane Hoffman pleaded, her cheeks tear-stained, "You can save Will." John assumed "Will" was her nephew.

"I'm sorry," he said, "There's nothing I can do." Diane took his hand.

"No, you can save him," she lightly touched the veins on his wrist. "He doesn't have to be dead."

"Nurse Hoffman," her grip on him tightened, "I think you had better see the ship's counselor, would you like me to bring you to him?"

"I don't need a shrink," she hissed and reached for something in her belt. "I just need some of your blood, for Will." John began backing away from her. The nurse held something in her hand. She whipped it out and lunged with the glass shard at John's wrist. He sidestepped and ducked when she swung again. There was a stinging pain on his forearm, but he barely felt it. As Diane drew back for one more strike, John grabbed her wrist and squeezed until she cried out and dropped the shard. Tears started to run down her face. Dr. McCoy pushed through the crowd that had gathered and took Nurse Hoffman from John's custody. She buried her face against him, her body shaking with sobs. John creased his brow as McCoy handed the nurse off to two male nurses and told them to take her to her quarters.

"Alright," the doctor said to the bystanders, "Shows over. Get back to work." They slowly complied. John tried to ignore their whispers.

"…_and she just attacked him?_"

"_I'm sure he started it…"_

"_Did she say he killed Will?"_

"_Figures; you can't change nature. Once a murderer, always a murderer."_

Dr. McCoy shot them a look and stepped closer to John. "I think you should get some sleep," he suggested, "We have enough staff to cover for a while, and it would probably be best to let this blow over." John nodded. "Alright, then," McCoy gestured for him to leave, "I'll call for you when you're needed."

John slowly walked to the turbo lift, the whispers following him and echoing through his mind. He gingerly felt the blood on his arm and lifted it to eye level. _Once a murderer, always a murderer._

* * *

**So that's that, write me a review and tell me whatcha think!**


	9. Chapter 9

**I did warn that it could take a while for the ninth chapter, but now it's here. But, thank you to anyone who took an interest in my absence. So, without further delay…**

* * *

Mr. Scott found the prisoner, something called a "lottery", to be entirely unsettling. He had tried to stare down the reptile when he arrived in the Brig, but his eyes began to water and he was forced to blink.

"Scotty?" Kirk prompted.

"Right," Scotty resumed, "so it was like I was saying, the lass called me an 'incompetent twat', and I sent her to Brig security."

"Lieutenant Shaye is not prepared nor qualified for security duties," Spock reprimanded, "furthermore, if it is not within your authority to assign crew to duties outside of engineering."

Scotty harrumphed. "So court martial me. The fact is, I was trying to teach her a lesson. And I like to think it worked." Spock looked ready to launch into a debate on Starfleet regulations and Jim quickly intervened.

"Let's get back to the real problem," he said, "Lieutenant whatshername is fine, that's all that matters." Jim had more important things to think about. "What do we do with this guy?"

"Give to the highest bidder?" Scotty suggested. Spock gave him a chilly look.

"The mere thought of slavery should never cross a Starfleet officer's mind."

"Scotty isn't advocating slavery, you overgrown wood nymph," Dr. McCoy explained, "he just means we should give the prisoner to the biggest, most powerful ship."

"How can we be sure that he is the 'Loduri' those people want?" Kirk asked.

"Who else could they possibly want?" Scotty crossed him arms.

Spock shared a look with the captain. "Khan."

"What would a bunch of lizard people want with Khan?" Scotty looked from face to face, "and why would they use him as a lottery?" The chief engineer was ignored by the other men, but the prisoner shifted to watch him exclusively.

"Let's assume, just for laughs," Kirk said, "that Khan is who they want. We can't allow him off this ship."

"Agreed," Spock nodded, "Khan's mind seems to accept his current situations, but any change in routine could make him unstable."

"Well, let's make sure that doesn't happen."

"Is that all, Captain?" Scotty was dismissed.

"Bones, how's Dr. Harrison routine-wise?" Kirk asked. Scotty waved to the security officer in the Brig's center as he passed.

"Your superiors are fools," a voice rasped. Scotty slowly turned around.

"Did you say something?" he asked the red-shirt hopefully.

"No, sir."

"You didn't happen to hear anything, I don't know, _unusual_?"

The security officer gave him a strange look, like he had smelled something unappealing. "No, sir."

"Huh," Scotty rubbed his temple; he could feel the mother of all headaches coming on. "Huh."

"So loyal, Mr. Scott. The loyal ones are always the most fun to break."

Scotty did his best to act as though hearing voices was normal and headed for the turbo lift.

"I've been spending too much time in space." Space fever, Scotty thought, that's what it is; it could only be cured by a glass of scotch (or two or four), old friends, and a beautiful woman (or two or four). That would all have to wait until later. He instructed the lift to go to engineering deck four. He whistled a tune as the lift doors opened, and walked toward the nearest consol and checked up on his leading lady.

"Afternoon, _Enterprise_," he murmured, greeting the ship in his usual manner, "What needs fixin' today?"

"The warp drive seems to need altering."

"Nonsense!" Scotty, too preoccupied with his work, didn't stop to see who answered his rhetorical question. "I've just don't that, she'll be able to reach warp nine point eight with my changes. Not for long, mind you, but it's nice to know she can."

"I think you should double check."

"Do you doubt me, lad?" The last word died on his lips as he spun around to confront the cheeky speaker. He was standing alone; the nearest crewmen were walking on the overhead walkways and giving him the same look the red-shirt in the Brig had given him. Scotty waved at them, more confused than embarrassed.

"Space fever," he said, almost convincing himself. Reluctantly, he returned to his consol and resumed his overview of the ship's condition.

Whenever his mind wandered or was distracted, his hand, or its own accord, would moved toward the warp status panel. Scotty let out a shaky breath and resorted to yanking his left hand away from the consol and shoving it under his right armpit. He grabbed a tablet from an ensign and went back to the turbo lift, intending to return to his quarters for one-third of his cure.

A yeoman carrying a food-laden tray was already in the left. "Are you headed for the warp drive and engine room?" she said, finger-combing through her blond ponytail. Scotty shook his head.

"Yes." No, Scotty thought, I mean "no". The words didn't come through.

"Great!" she said, "I'm bringing a few treats for the double shifters."

"That's very kind of you, lass," Scotty smiled, "mind if I help myself to a few—" The yeoman smacked this hand away.

"Sorry, sir, but these are not for you."

The lift stopped. "Fair enough. Luck to you." They both walked out of it. Scotty didn't know why he was there. What I should do, he thought, is get back on that lift. His feet carried him to the main control panel. He set down his tablet and flipped a few switches that opened a small port in the warp drive; it was as if someone else controlled his body.

Scotty found himself in front of the port. It seemed small and unimportant, but he knew that it lead straight to the inner machinery of the warp drive. His left hand drew his phasor. With a flick of his finger, the weapon changed from stun to kill mode.

"Mr. Scott, what are you doing?" It was the yeoman from the elevator, tray in hand. It was nearly empty except for two plates of snacks. He turned to her, tears in his eyes.

"I don't know," his voice quavered. "Get out of here, lass." The yeoman's eyes glanced down at his phasor. She began to back away.

His left arm raised and he closed his eyes. His finger pressed the trigger. Scotty didn't open his eyes, his body no longer needing sight to perform its actions. He heard a soft cry and a thud. His arm swung around and fired into the port several times, crippling the _Enterprise_. Footsteps and shouts rushed in his direction.

Finally, he lifted his eyelids long enough to see his hands switch the phasor to stun and point it at himself. He watched his finger pull the trigger.

The blast propelled the unconscious Mr. Scott eight feet backwards. The engineers who had heard the yeoman;s shout stopped near their chief and the young woman. One dropped to his knee beside the yeoman and felt for a pulse.

"Oh, God," he gasped, slowly standing. "She's dead." Another engineer ran over to Mr. Scott. He stooped over and placed two fingers on the unconscious man's neck.

"I've got a pulse!"he cried. The man who had confirmed the yeoman's death walked shakily over, taking charge.

"Davis, get sick bay on the communicator and tell them everything that happened as we know it, got it?" the man next to Mr. Scott nodded and raced toward the far end of the engine room.

"Jack," an engineer picked up the discarded phasor, "the chief couldn't have done this, could he?"

Jack shook his head, but didn't reply. "Someone cover her up," he said softly.

The _Enterprise_ lurched from her path, causing the personnel in the engine room to fall to the floor. The room filled with mechanical screaming. It was as if the _Enterprise _was in pain. The engineers covered their ears and searched for the sound's source.

"Oh, no," an engineer with a vaguely Australian accent caught sight of the open port. "Now we're really screwed." Jack followed her gaze and cursed imaginatively.

* * *

"God damn it," McCoy swore, "not again." He picked himself off the Brig's white floor and straightened his uniform. He had just finished telling –rather _calmly_—the captain what exactly qualified as "routine" for a doctor when the ship moved suddenly from under his feet. Whose bright idea was it to make Khan a doctor, anyway?

Right, Bones thought, mine. Well, it had seemed like a good plan in the beginning.

Kirk followed the doctor's example and removed himself from the floor. Spock had been on his feet the moment the floor had stopped shaking.

"No one could have said it in a more poetic way," Kirk rubbed his shoulder then experimentally tested the joint.

"Are you injured, Captain?" Spock asked immediately.

"He's fine," the doctor said more sharply than necessary, "now if you gentlemen don't mind, the sick bay is about to be flooded with wounded men and women so I'll just go take care of that."

"Good luck," Kirk said sincerely.

"Do not try me, boy," if it had been in his nature, McCoy would have snarled.

The prisoner watched the remaining two men from a kneeling position.

"Dr. McCoy seems to be acting more emotionally imbalanced than usual," Spock observed.

"He recently lost a patient in surgery," Kirk held back an emotionally-imbalanced sigh. "Come on, Spock, let's stop psycho analyzing the good doctor and find out what the Hell just happened to my ship." As the two Starfleet officers left the Brig, the prisoner in Cell D released a guttural croaking sound that may have resembled a laugh.

* * *

"Get out of here, John," Dr. McCoy said, "I said I'd call for you when I needed you."

John looked around the crowded sick bay. "It seems you need some help."

"You've worked a double, if not triple shift already. Not to mention, you've been stabbed," Bones gestured to John's self-bandaged forearm. "What I need is for you to get some rest."

"I can't sleep," John said truthfully. It wasn't a desperate need to help others that coaxed him from his quarters, but restlessness. McCoy handed an automatic syringe to him.

"Here," he said, "This'll knock you out more effectively than a champion heavy weight boxer, and," the doctor added with a smile, "probably make you higher than a kite so use it carefully." John found himself smiling back and struggled to bury his affection for the metaphor-toting chief medical officer. Probably just another lie, he told himself. There was no way they could actually be friends.

"Thank you."

"_Leave_," Bones pointed to the door.

Back in his quarters, John sat on the edge of his bed. He kicked off his shoes and peeled off his blue shirt but remained otherwise fully clothed. Without realizing it, he tensed his muscles, then stretched leisurely. He placed the tip of the injector where his neck just began to slope in to his shoulders. He felt the needle distribute the sleep aid medication. John felt its effects immediately.

It was the same with ever y medication he had taken over the last few months. His body resisted the drug. His pulse raced, adrenaline flooded his system only to be washed away by a numbing calm. He fell backwards against his bed, asleep by the time the mattress stilled; and dreamed. And remembered.

* * *

**I've rewritten this chapter so many times, but I think I finally got it where it needs to be. Any feedback would be great! Well, until the next chapter, darlings. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Well, fancy meeting you here. I'm terribly sorry about not updating for… what has it been, a month? Two months? Doesn't matter really, I guess. Thank you to everyone who has taken an interest in my story in the meantime! It means the world to me. And now, the long awaited chapter ten:**

* * *

"Please, Captain, I didn't—I would never purposefully damage the _Enterprise_, I mean," Scotty looked desperately at the captain and ship's counselor, "I didn't do it, I swear."

Kirk had a cold, firm expression etched into his features. "Mr. Scott, you just admitted to shooting Yeoman Chojnski and damaging the warp drive, and now you're saying you _didn't_ do any of that?"

"I did," he said incoherently, "but I didn't, Captain." Jim sighed and left the interrogation room, which was, in actuality, a little-used conference space outfitted with surveillance cameras.

"A word, Dr. Chen?" he said softly. The counselor with the receding hairline followed him into the hall, leaving three security officers to watch the chief engineer. "Can you explain to me why my Lieutenant Commander has left my ship stranded without warp capabilities?" Dr. Chen waited patiently for the captain to stop raging before calmly answering.

"No, but," he interrupted the captain mid-protest, "but I will try to get Commander Scott to." Jim was hardly satisfied with that answer but was distracted by the arrival of Dr. McCoy.

"Chen," McCoy said with obvious contempt.

"That's _Doctor_ Chen, Bones," Dr. Chen smiled with blatant, palpable contempt.

"Right," Kirk said, caught between the two pairs of glaring eyes. "Right, now that we have that settled, can we get back to the mutinous Scotsman?"

"Of course, Captain," Dr. Chen nodded with a pointed look at McCoy. "I'll speak with him now."

"And it's _Doctor_ Bones to you," McCoy growled at the counselor's back. Jim only managed to keep a straight face by biting the inside of his cheek.

"You sure showed him."

"You bet I did," Bones pointed meaningfully at the conference room door.

"I want to know what that was all about," Jim admitted, "but it will have to wait. Tell me you have something important to tell me."

"I've given John Harrison something that will knock him out for a couple hours. Spock wanted to do a few tests to see if the lights are on in the attic, so to speak."

"Tell me; do you sit up every night thinking of metaphors just to annoy me?"

"Not every night," McCoy said evenly. "Now, I need to see a Vulcan about a three hundred-year-old man's brain. Do we have your 'okay'?"

"You do," Kirk shut his eyes and massaged his temples. The meaning of the gesture was not lost on the doctor.

"When's the last time you had a full night's rest, Jim?"

"Three years ago?" he smiled, hiding his exhaustion. Bones just shook his head.

"So help me, if you don't sleep soon, I'll drug you myself."

"Don't you have a nurse to chase, or whatever it is that you doctors do?"

The doctor arched an eyebrow. "As a matter of fact, I do. Don't you have to go sit in your chair and look important, or whatever it is that you captains do?"

Jim grinned. "Something like that."

* * *

Kirk entered the main engine room. Instantly, he was swarmed by fast-talking engineers. He shouted over their clashing voices.

"Enough," he said. "I know everyone has something very important to say, but I need to speak with Mr. Scott's second, Lieutenant Akram. Does anyone know where I can find him?"

"He's working on the drive's outer shell." Multiple hands pointed the captain in Akram's direction.

The warp engine was the largest structure in the room, but what was visible was barely ten percent of the ship's inner workings. Kirk knew how expansive the _Enterprise's _machinery really was firsthand. The drive's lights , formerly bright, now flickered unhealthily. Kirk looked around the outer shell. No Lieutenant Akram. Just as the first flutters of unease entered his thoughts, a voice from above startled him.

"Captain!" an engineer called from high up on the tower. He was wedged awkwardly on the massive frame, fiddling with what Kirk recognized as a mechanical doohickey. "I'll be down in a second!" Kirk watched, fascinated, as the lieutenant climbed down the side of the warp drive. He dropped down the last couple feet, landing in a crouched position in front of his captain.

"Jack Akram," he shook Kirk's hand. "Thanks for coming down here, Captain.:

"No, thank you."

Jack smiled tightly. "The news isn't good. Commander Scott knew where to hit us."

"Any chance you can repair the damage?"

He shook his head. "Not without a full system shut down, There's only so much we can do without risking lives."

"I understand," Kirk said. "What exactly are we dealing with?"

Jack looked up, as if taking mental inventory. "Well, using the warp drive is out of the question. It might be possible to patch it up enough for one last go, but we'll probably explode in the process. Actually, we'll definitely explode in the process."

"So we're drifting without any way of fixing her?"

"I'd suggest that we abandon ship as soon as possible."

"Go on," Jim said, sensing the lieutenant hadn't told him everything.

"The drive is in a highly unstable state. There's already been a few close calls. We're doing all we can, but," Jack hesitated, "it doesn't look good, Captain."

Kirk nodded slowly. "Do anything you need to do to keep her stable. I want all engineers working on this. If things do get worse, contact me immediately."

"Yes, sir," Jack said. "And Captain?" he called as kirk crossed the engine room.

"Mr. Akram?"

Jack fidgeted with his sleeve. "The commander couldn't have done… what he did willingly. He loves this ship."

Kirk was so silent that Jack thought that he had angered him. Finally, the captain said: "I hope you're right."

* * *

Dr. McCoy was troubled by how bare John Harrison's quarters were. Whereas any other crewman would have personalized, well, _everything_, the only warmth in the otherwise generic rooms was the small collection of family pictures he had placed on a shelf. Bones avoided looking too closely at them. They had previously belonged to an ensign; he died a month before "Harrison" joined the crew. If Spock was surprised by the sparse decorations, he didn't show it. Then again, he rarely did.

"How much of the sedative did he receive?" The Vulcan said in a hushed tone.

"Oh, I'd say enough to send three Klingons Dreamland for a good few hours," McCoy said loudly and clapped the science officer on the back. "Relax, Spock, he's not going to wake up. And even if he does, I'll just give him another dose of this." The doctor held up the hypospray. He looked unsure for a moment. "Although, I really don't know what that will do to him."

"Let us hope we do not have to find out."

McCoy stood back as Spock unpacked a tricorder specialized to pick up neurological activity. They entered the small bedroom linked to the main living space. John, or rather Khan, was sprawled over the blankets on his mattress.

Spock went to work immediately. He rolled Khan onto his back and steadily scanned from one temple to the other. Bones stayed put. He stared intensely at Khan's relaxed features. He wondered how much separated Kahn from John Harrison.

"Spock," he asked, thinking aloud, "how much of our personalities is shaped by our memories?"

"For most intelligent species, roughly thirty-three point three-three percent. Some neurologists argue more, others say less. That subject is very…" Spock paused.

"Wishy-washy?" Bones suggested.

"I was going to say 'vague'."

"So a third, that's all?"

"Unfortunately, the human mind is quite a bit more complicated than that."

"I don't know whether to feel insulted or complimented right now."

The doctor's comment was ignored. "Some of your traits are decided at a genetic level. For example, it is very probable that you were a pessimist even as you developed in your mother's womb."

"Do me a favor, Spock, and never speak about my mother's womb in front of me. It makes me uncomfortable to hear a Vulcan talk about her uterus."

Spock continued, pretending not to hear him. "However, most personality traits are shaped by an individual's environment."

"Like sociopaths: made not born," McCoy almost added "and Vulcans" but restrained himself.

"Yes," Spock raided his eyebrows, revealing mild surprise, "Or in Khan's case, vengeful, genocidal despots." McCoy raised his own eyebrows.

"For an emotionless slave to logic, you harbor hatred like a human."

"Hatred is a particularly futile emotion, Dr. McCoy," Spock stopped scanning and read the results. The doctor wasn't convinced, but didn't argue.

"Anything fascinating going on in there?" he gestured to John's head. Spock audibly exhaled, which McCoy interpreted as his way of throwing the tricorder across the room in frustration.

"There is too much activity to get a clear reading, we might as well leave."

"Whoa, hold up there now," Dr. McCoy said. "I'm all for letting this man rest in drug-induced slumber, but I can't believe you are giving up that easy."

"This is not 'giving up'; there is nothing more I can do."

McCoy crossed his arms. "What about that Vulcan mind voodoo you did before?" Spock's left eyebrow twitched toward the ceiling.

"I sincerely hope that was an attempt of derogation and not an accurate reflection on your intelligence, Doctor."

Said doctor stared down the stubborn Vulcan. He took in his white-knuckled grip on the tricorder and flared nostrils.

"You don't want to go back into his mind, do you?" McCoy realized. Spock was silent. "Why? Is it really so terrible if he's remembering?"

"I have seen," Spock said at last, "every moment of Khan's life through his eyes: every death at his hands, every country conquered, every thought, every feeling. Trust me when I tell you it is better for us if he remains as Dr. Harrison."

"Because Khan is a monster," McCoy said, looking sadly at the unconscious figure.

"On the contrary, Doctor," Spock tilted his head slightly to the side, "because he is human." Neither noticed John's eyelids flicker open.

"What the Hell is that—"

"Dr. McCoy, commander, what are you doing in my quarters?" John blinked blearily from his bed.

"Ah," Bones shared a look with Spock, "you're dreaming."

"I'm dreaming that you and Mr. Spock are in my bedroom?" he said dubiously and waited for the punch line to what he thought was a practical joke.

"Yes, so sit back and relax while Dream Spock, um, gives you a facial." It took some gesturing for Spock to understand the hint. The first officer glared coldly at McCoy and positioned his hand on John's face before he could become more alert. Both of their eyes unfocused. Bones triggered the sedative on the side of John's neck and watched a cold seat break out at his temples and his muscles clench before John relaxed completely. Soon after, Spock released his hold on him and backed away. McCoy pretended not to notice that the Vulcan appeared a bit dazed and, of all things, a bit content too. It would seem that not all of Khan was vengeful and genocidal.

"You know," Bones said shakily, "I never expected a product of genetic engineering and selective breeding to be such a pharmaceutical light weight."

"How do you mean?" Spock picked up his discarded tricorder.

"His body tries to reject anything that's given to him. He almost went into cardiac arrest after taking a standard immunization. I'm worried about what the sedative will do to him, he's got enough of that stuff in his system to kill an elephant."

"He seemed to wake up fine the first time."

"Hold the sass, hobgoblin," McCoy glanced back one more at the drugged man before heading out the door. "I don't want to hear it."

* * *

**That should be good for now. The next installment will have death and insanity in it, because I'm kind of sadistic when it comes to controlling the lives of my characters! Yay! Please Review! Sorry, that was far too many exclamation points in row. **


	11. Chapter 11

**This chapter wrote itself much easier than the last two or three. Yes, I feel pretty good about it. It's at this point that I want to point out that John and Khan are one and the same (sort of) because it gets a little murky somewhere in this one.**

* * *

Dr. Chen silently took notes in front of the Scotsman. He leaned against the wall and wrote in an annoyingly unhurried way. Scotty squirmed in his heavy chair and wrestles with the thick handcuffs around his wrists.

"Aren't you going to interrogate me or something?"

"Is that what you want me to do?" Dr. Chen asked evenly.

"Not particularly, no," Scotty said nervously.

The counselor smiled, the corners of his eyes showing well-worn lines.

"Don't worry," he said, laughing, as he sat cross-legged on the floor, "I'm not here to extort your best kept secrets. I believe you experienced something horrible; I just want to help."

"Good," Scott said slowly, still suspicious.

"So let's take this nice and slow, alright, Mr. Scott?"

He nodded, jaw clenched. Dr. Chen smiled sympathetically. His silver eyebrows drew together as the counselor thought out loud.

"You don't strike me as a particularly unstable man," he said. "You are, however, loyal, reliable, intelligent, creative, and irreplaceable."

"Ach," Scotty waved him off, or he would have if he could move his arms, ""I've got my flaws."

Dr. Chen put aside his notebook (he insisted on using pen and paper to take notes). "Yes, you are absolutely right, Mr. Scott. Everyone has their flaws and it takes a certain kind of man to admit his own." Scotty let out a shaky breath. "You are stubborn and overly-competitive, you push yourself to hard because you don't know how to function in a stress-free environment, you let people use you because it makes you feel needed, you act first and think later, if at all, and you drink too much."

"'Too much is just enough'," Scotty quoted weakly. "Aren't shrinks supposed to use 'I feel' statements?" the chief engineer avoided the silver-haired man's eyes.

"A woman is dead, Mr. Scott."

Scotty winced. "I didn't—"

"Yes, you did. You held up your phasor, switched it to kill, and shot her."

"I didn't do it."

"Stop this, Scotty; you did and you know it." Dr. Chen pinched the bridge of his nose. "What I want to know is why," he said quietly. "Why did you kill Yeoman Chojnski?"

Tears ran down the lieutenant commander's cheeks and his shoulders quaked. He hung his head.

"Tell me what happened from the beginning, please," Dr. Chen judged his patient was ready to speak and retrieved his notebook. Scotty took a series of deep breaths and looked hesitantly up.

"Everything started after I left the Brig."

"What started?"

Scotty shrugged helplessly. "I can't explain it, I started doing things I didn't mean to do, going places I didn't want to go."

"Please try, Commander."

Another sad shrug. "It was like my body was acting on its own, without my say. I couldn't stop it, it just started doing small things, and then the phasor was in my hand and…"

The counselor stayed quiet.

"You probably thing I'm mad," Scotty grumbled. "I'm not made, it's not like I'm hearing—" he stopped and groaned.

"Yes, Mr. Scott?"

"Voices," he moaned, "I heard voices in the brig and again in engineering."

"What did they say?"

"I don't know," he said miserably. "Something about the warp drive." Dr. Chen stood abruptly.

"Thank you, Mr. Scott, you've been a great help."

Scotty was left alone in the conference room. He felt a tear drip off his chin.

"Don't waste your tears yet, Mr. Scott," the voice in his mind hissed. "It's going to get much, much worse."

* * *

Dr. Chen wasn't particularly extraordinary Starfleet officer. He never had the thirst for adventure needed to advance in space exploration nor the respect for authority demanded in every Starfleet Academy cadet. He did, however, possess the singular ability to both listen _and_ hear what a person said. So he became a counselor.

Forty-some years after he made that decision, he was running down the halls like a man half his age. Chen had always been clever, that, combined with an open mind, made it easy for him to spot connections. And he had found one.

The counselor abruptly stopped beside a wall with a ship communication. He leaned against the wall and gasped for breath. He was getting too old for this kind of excitement, but retirement was the furthest thing from his mind. Dr. Chen lightly activated the communicator.

"Captain Kirk?" he coughed. "This is Counselor Chen." There was a moment of silence from the other side.

"Kirk here," the communicator relayed the captain's voice. "Did you get anything from Scotty?"

"I believe so."

"Alright, where are you now? I'll meet up with you immediately."

"Deck fourteen, but I suggest we meet in the brig."

"I'm heading there now, out."

Dr. Chen walked into the brig and nodded at the security officer on duty. He breathed deeply and stole a glance at the prisoner's cell.

"Afternoon, Counselor," Remis smiled from the central control center. Remis was a regular patient of his. He was a former member of United Earth's terrestrial guard. He was ranked Major and never let anyone forget it. He also had a fear of abandonment, to use the clinical term: "daddy issues".

"Good Afternoon, Remis," Dr. Chen never took his eyes off of Cell D.

"Come to look at the lizard man?"

"Something like that," Chen stood directly in front of the cell's transparent barrier. The prisoner slowly turned his scaly, gry head to return the counselor's calculating stare. His wide mouth seemed to broaden. He opened his thin lips to bare his teeth and Dr. Chen glimpsed the creature's slender, forked tongue.

"I've discovered what you've done, 47368," Dr. Chen said calmly, "and what you can do." The prisoner tilted his head to the side, as if sizing the counselor up. "Captain Kirk asked me to find out why Montgomery Scott would murder an innocent yeoman and damage the warp engine. You're the reason, aren't you? You made him do it. I don't know how, or why, but I'm fairly certain it has something to do with the prerecorded transmission that was picked up." The reptiliod perked up at the mention of the transmission.

"That's an incredible leap of logic," the prisoner rasped in Dr. Chen's mind. "You are, of course, correct on every point."

"So you're not a mute."

"Unfortunately," came the telepathic reply, "I cannot allow you to spread this information." The prisoner flickered his tongue around his needle-point teeth. "Nothing personal."

The aging therapist stood straighter. "And how do you plan on stopping me?"

The barrier vanished; nothing stood between Dr. Chen and the prisoner. The counselor faced Remis in confusion.

"What are you doing?" he cried. Remis was as shocked as he was.

"I don't know," the (ex) major stuttered. Both he and the prisoner drew phasors. Remis raiser his weapon and pointed it at Dr. Lang. His other arm tugged at his phasor arm in vain. With wide eyes, Remis shook his head at the counselor.

"I can't stop it," he said, his voice cracking. A flick of a finger, and the phasor was set to its highest setting. Dr. Chen looked up at the huge reptile's expressionless face.

"You can't hide forever; the brig is under constant video surveillance."

"Yes," the prisoner rasped, "and the security officer in charge of surveillance is conveniently distracted, and when I am finished, he will erase the last five hours of footage and fake a malfunction."

"You'll be stopped," Chen said, not nearly as confident as he sounded.

Remis watched himself fire. Dr. Chen stumbled back from the force of the shot. He was dead before he hit the floor. Remis dropped the phasor and stared at the counselor's body. His voice shook with rage when he spoke.

"Why are you—"

He was silenced by a single shot from the prisoner's stolen phasor. His body slumped into his seat. His chest would never rise and fall in breath again.

The prisoner placed Shaye's phasor into Dr. Chen's left hand and wrapped the fingers around the grip. For the second time, he pressed a series of switches on the command consol and returned to his cell. The barrier confined him once again.

Kirk entered the scenes minutes after the prisoner pulled the phasor's trigger. He stopped mid step and looked at the two bodies in horror.

"No, please no."

He tested each for a pulse. He pulled away and slammed a fist down onto the security consol.

"Not again, damn it."

He stood there like that for a while, his eyes closed and his head hung. Finally, he turned on his personal communicator.

"I need a team of medics in the brig," he said emptily, "to retrieve two casualties." An odd sensation on the back of his neck alerted him to the prisoner's unblinking stare. Kirk met the creature's gaze. "Kirk out."

* * *

John tilted his head back and watched the private light show his mind created on the ceiling. The pain in his head kept a rhythmic beat that almost drowned out the noise of the mess hall. Almost. Black spots bloomed across his vision and he quickly closed his eyes with a full body grimace.

The mess was perhaps the loudest, biggest, and most godless of all the rec rooms. At least today it was. Every now and then, he would catch a sentence or two from different conversations, but for the most part, the crew's voices merged together to create an unholy cacophony.

John slowly took his head in his hands and lowered it to the table. He rested a cheek against its surface and squinted at this tray. He had chosen synthesizer chips at random, and now regarded his choices. His meal consisted of an Orion mystery-meat pot pie, a block of sharp cheddar cheese, devilled eggs, and a cup of mulled wine. An obnoxiously brutal tsunami wave of nausea caused him to push away the tray. All except the wine; John liked the idea of alcohol in his current state. Although, with the way the floor was lurching beneath him, it was becoming nearly impossible to get the cup to his lips. The warm, spiced liquid didn't clear his head (quite the opposite, in fact), but it did provide a small mental comfort.

"Celebrating already?"

John peered over the rim of the mug. "Afternoon, Hester," he said and concentrated on setting down his beverage without spilling.

"Please don't call me that," she begged, sitting down across from him, "it took me all of Academy to get people to call me Shaye." John winced at the scrapping of the chair against the floor.

"I like your name," he said. He knew she wouldn't bring up the subject again.

"You look like Hell," Shaye observed unsympathetically.

"It's more than skin deep, believe me," John sipped at the mulled wine, letting its warmth spread over his body. He shivered.

"Are you alright?"

"Not even a little bit."

The room seemed to spin and narrow out. John focused on Shaye's almond eyes and heart-shaped face.

"What happened to you?" her eyes widened in genuine concern. John smiled a little.

"Side effect, I think."

"To what?" Shaye snorted, "meth?"

"Sedative," he corrected. The woman gave him a questioning look. "I have—" John cocked his head to the side and paused as if listening for something, "—nightmares."

"Nightmares, really?" Shaye stared to laugh.

"Yes," John looked at her with such a sad expression that the laughter died in her throat.

"Oh."

John jerked his head to face the far wall. "How's your head?" he asked, distracted. What kept his attention was the rapid gunshots. He wondered by no one was reacting to them. Shaye's hand flew up to her forehead.

"Fine," she said too quickly. "That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about, John. You see—"

"Do you hear that?" he asked.

"Hear what?"

"The firefight," he said in exasperation. "It's so close. How can you not hear it?"

"John?" Shaye asked as he dove under the table. She looked around and smiled sheepishly at a few staring crewmen before hesitantly joining him. "What are you doing?" she hissed. John pressed a finger to his lips.

"It will be a miracle if we get off this planet alive," when he turned to face her, Shay knew he wasn't truly with her. In his delusion, John saw a striking, Middle Eastern woman with a wild mass of dark curls. He looked into her black eyes with regret in his own. "You were right, Meila," he whispered. "I only wish you could have lived to see it." He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. Shaye's eyes widened as he kissed her. He deepened the embrace and she let him, a sigh escaping her lips. Someone catcalled. Shaye closed her eyes and tried not to dwell on the psychological damage this was bound to give her. John broke it off and leaned his forehead against Shaye's.

"Good bye, Meila," he said," forgive me for hoping you can't haunt me where I'm going."

"Wow," Shaye breathed, a bit dazed. He rose to a standing position and began to walk toward the door. His doctor's gait vanished within a few steps. A security officer noticed the change and placed a firm hand on John's shoulder.

"Hey, doc, are you feeling okay?"

Without tuning his head, Khan broke the man's wrist and kicked him out of his way.

"Well," Shaye said from under the table, "shit."

The officer's cries alerted others to the new danger. John/Khan may have been seeing a hallucination, but he didn't fight like it. Five crewmen swarmed him. He threw them to the ground before anyone had the sense to get out a phasor. Shaye scrambled out from her hiding place just as a redshirt crashed into it. Two more rushed him. Khan elbowed the first in the face, using his attacker's momentum to his advantage. Blood spilled from the security officer's broken nose and dripped onto his uniform. An almost lazy blow to his solar plexus brought the burly officer to his knees. This happened in a matter of seconds and Khan efficiently dealt with the second attacker. The officer managed to hit him across the cheek, not that it did much damage. Khan grasped the officer's shoulders and drove his knee into the other man's groin. The man doubled over and Khan gripped him at his temples.

And began to _squeeze_.

"Stop," Shaye cried, her voice hoarse. Khan looked up and seemed to recognized her.

"Hes—?"

Two phasor blasts knocked him to the floor. Spock kept his phasor trained on the fallen man, then shot him a third time for good measure.

"Lieutenant," he said to Shaye, "call for a security team to convene with me in sick bay."

* * *

**Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed this chapter as much as I did!**


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